Poetry by Alinda Dickinson Wasner

Standing on the steps of the high schoolthose mornings I envied the other girlstheir eyes lined and lips glossed with 79-cent Avon–and while Jane argued with Priscillaabout which was more seductive,intelligence or the new mathteacher,or when Pat bantered with Billabout batting averages and RBIs,I wished I toocould get the hang of small talk;instead, tongue-tied,I resorted to noticing how the older boyspants pegged and hairslicked back like Elvisfollowed the curve of light on a cheerleader’s sweater.Those afternoons Warren and Jeffchained their Harleyslike wild animals to a tree,and, collars turned up,danced unafraid in the gym,while, out on the ball field.trombones growling and trumpets howling,the marching banddeployed between grandstand and goal posttoed the twenty-yard linetongueing triumphantly the truculent high notes.Even then we understood some small secretsabout passionand long before someonesmuggled the D.H. Lawrencefrom the Latin teacher’s purseor lifted the Ulysses from Mr. DeWalt’s personal library,we were already worriedthat hope had an ablative absolute,that regret was its own intimate, read infinite,series of vectors and trajectories.What we studied was not just Joanne’simpeccable grade pointor John’s infatuation with physicsbut those nights, Lucky Strikessmoldering under the streetlampswe worked hardto perfect the algorithmsof our own lies and legends.What we learnedwas that our teachersmay have seen us with more compassionthan we allowed ourselvesor one another;what we still want to knowis how to convey all of this,now more than thirty-fiveyears later.